


To Tame the Fury

by WinterRose527



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crushes, F/M, In Universe, Intrigue, Out of Canon, Plots, Slow Burn, alternate series of events, and anything else I feel like throwing in here, and pining, court scheming, general drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23787793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterRose527/pseuds/WinterRose527
Summary: Robert Baratheon never went North, so Eddard Stark never went South.When Joffrey Baratheon inherits the crown he demands all the Wardens come to King's Landing to pledge fealty, but Ned Stark's health precludes him from doing so. Robb Stark, his father's son and a Lord in training offers to represent the North in his stead, and Sansa Stark who had always dreamed of the Southern court begs her father's permission to join him. She is allowed to go on the condition that her half-brother Jon Snow delays his joining of the Night's Watch to serve as her personal bodyguard.In the South, the court had replaced a drunken King with a cruel one. Myrcella Baratheon, sister to the king and Princess of the Iron Throne is uniquely vulnerable to her brother's designs.And all around them more players are arising, ready to make their moves...
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Myrcella Baratheon/Robb Stark, and it's going to not always be clear, and probably others - Relationship, and the games of the heart, at least hinted at - Relationship, or potential for, these kids are playing the game of thrones
Comments: 74
Kudos: 198





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this is going to explore what might have happened if the initial events of Game of Thrones had played out differently. The younger generation always intrigued me and I always wondered might have happened if they were left to their own devices. There will definitely be meddling from older generations, and they will certainly be vulnerable to all that happened before them, but this will focus primarily on younger Starks, Baratheons, etc.
> 
> I've messed with the ages a bit to make everything a *little* more kosher. The story begins a couple years earlier but for the majority of the fic the ages will be as below.
> 
> Robb Stark - 18  
> Jon Snow - 18  
> Joffrey Baratheon - 17  
> Sansa Stark - 16  
> Myrcella Baratheon - 15  
> Trystane Martell - 20  
> Dickon Tarly - 20  
> Samwell Tarly - 22  
> Margaery Tyrell - 17
> 
> Also just a PSA -- I *rarely* write in-universe stories and I am going to be messing with things so if you are hoping for complete faithfulness to/intricacy of canon then this is probably not the fic for you! I am far more concerned with fun of the story revolving around the major players than making sure I get all the other details right. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! xox

The room smelled of stale wine and sex and crumbling cheese. There were many rooms in the world that suffered its stench, but none in a home quite so grand as this. It was a smell more suited to brothels and back alleys, but in these past sixteen years had traveled into the castle known as the Red Keep.

In the early years of King Robert Baratheon’s reign his advisors had blamed it on youth and warrior’s sickness. So many had it immediately following the war. There was so much to repair, and so much guilt felt by those who had survived.

As he grew older though and his stomach grew larger, his temper shorter, they had to admit to themselves that they had chosen the wrong king. No one missed the reign of the Mad King but many wondered what might have come of his son. He had been slain on the battlefield but marked for death in the bedchamber. There were many though who would have been happy to dismiss their Prince’s foolishness for just that - blame it on a frigid wife and a loose young temptress.

But Rhaegar was dead and Robert alive and the only thing left to do was put a crown on his head.

It was the cruelest thing they could have done, but he proved himself king when he let his suffering spread. Like a wound that had been left to fester, his pain infected his kingdoms, spreading to the south and the west, even traveling along the King’s Road to the great white North. But most of all it infected the woman he’d taken as his bride and the children she’d mothered.

A new generation was born and they rose on puppet strings to dance the steps set forth by the previous one. Baratheon. Stark. Lannister. Targaryen. Martell. Tyrell. And so on and so forth. This string pulled and that string pulled and soon they would be unable to untangle themselves from one another and all that came before them.

But for now King Robert Baratheon, The First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm drained his cup and set upon the whore known to others as Rosemary, but into whose neck he whispered _Lyanna_.


	2. The Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support so far! Writing this one makes me very nervous but I'm really excited too.
> 
> As an FYI, about a year passed between the prologue and this chapter.

On this day fifteen years earlier the bells in Winterfell had rung from sunrise to sunset.

Eddard and Catelyn Stark’s second child, the first to be born in Winterfell, had been given a princess’ welcome into the world. For all intents and purposes that is what she was to the people of Winterfell, and the North. As though she knew it even then she had always had the grace of royalty. A lady at three, according to her mother, she was a delightful child with the porcelain blue eyes and auburn hair common in the Tully’s.

Around the age of thirteen she had turned into the exact beauty all of her childhood prettiness had anticipated and on this, her fifteenth nameday, those who gathered would say that she had all the fairness and grace of the ladies in the songs she loved so much.

The celebrations had started early in the day, with the cooks preparing lemon cakes and the chambermaids scrubbing until the castle gleamed. Her younger brother Bran had woken and run into the fields by their home with his direwolfSummer at his side, to pick wildflowers for her as he always had. Unlike their older brother he had not agonized over what gift to give her, knowing that she would accept the flowers graciously, calling him _Ser Bran_ like he was knighted already.

For her nameday celebrations Sansa had only asked for musicians and dancing. She had been practicing the steps for weeks with Jeyne Poole, bringing in whatever maid was closest to clap out a beat for them to follow. There were not often musicians at Winterfell but Lord Eddard Stark had acquiesced after a little interceding by his wife. Sansa was a good girl, a dutiful daughter, and her mother knew that she would not long be contented to stay in this grey land they called home.

The Starks’ bannermen had been arriving with their families all mornings. Umbers and Glovers and Karstarks, the Boltons had sent their regrets, but the Hornwoods and Cerwyns came bearing gifts and new dancing partners for the younger generation.

While Sansa’s older brother Robb and their half-brother Jon had rolled their eyes at her request, they could not deny the merits of it when the young ladies of other houses of the North were helped off of their horses and escorted by their brothers and cousins into the hall. They were both hulking youths of seventeen and while Robb’s head was more likely to be persuaded by a smile, Jon was not entirely immune to the charms of women.

Neither of them were quite as happy as Theon Greyjoy, the Stark’s prisoner and ward, the best friend of Robb Stark and constant nuisance of Jon Snow.

“Look at that one,” he said for the third time that hour.

Even still, Robb and Jon eagerly followed his gaze toward a girl being escorted by an old man.

“Alys Karstark,” Robb remembered.

The girl had grown since the last time she’d been at Winterfell, but her featureswere not enough to excite him. Theon was intrigued by anything with a beating heart, and while Alys was certainly more than that, he found little beauty in her.

“She looks like her father,” Jon mumbled and the three of them fell into laughter.

Robb’s mother Catelyn turned and glared, which straightened them all up rather quickly, and another mere flick of her eyes made Robb step forward.

He bowed to Alys and her father, Lord Rickard Karstark. Their families were related, and it was with the courtesy of both a distant cousin and a liege lord that he greeted them and offered Alys his arm.

Jon and Theon, though often at odds, could always be counted upon to delight together in Robb’s discomfort, and the young lord ignored the tittering of his friends as he inquired about the lady’s journey and whether her brothers had accompanied her and her father.

Across the courtyard Arya Stark, the third child and second daughter of Winterfell, stood with her wolf pup Nymeria watching the people arrive. She was dressed in a scratchy blue dress that had once belonged to her older sister and had already gotten the knees muddy when she’d fallen in the tiltyard. Her mother would likely be too busy with the lords and ladies to notice, but Septa Mordane wouldn’t. The Septa always seemed to have enough attention to spare to catch Arya's shortcomings.

Arya ran in between the horses trotting into the courtyard and was caught to his side by her father.

“What trouble have you found today, sweet girl?,” he asked her.

“None,” she shook her head.

He glanced down at her gown and pushed her behind him when Septa Mordane glanced their way. Arya smiled as she breathed in the leathery, earthy smell of him. Her father towered over her, even at her twelve years of age, and appeared to her as he did all of his children, like the only bit of safety she’d ever need.

He had always had more patience for the wildness in his second daughter than either her Septa or her mother. It had been many years since he’d seen such willfulness in a girl and he would not assist in ridding her of it.

When the last of the houses had arrived they moved into the Great Hall. More banquet tables had been brought in than had been there in some time, and they were lining the sides of the large room to make a clear space for dancing.

Sansa, the lady of the day, sat next to her best friend Jeyne Poole. The pair were wondering which of the young men assembled might ask them to dance. Jeyne was hoping for a chance with Robb, which Sansa thought was silly because she saw him every day.

She had often done her best to counsel Jeyne out of her infatuation with the Stark heir, knowing there would be no hope in it. Robb was to be the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North if tradition kept, and Jeyne only a steward’s daughter. Whatever childhood affection was between them there could be no hope in it, and Sansa did not want her friend’s heart to break.

She glanced around the room, and as was her nature that she would have been pleased to know how many amassed were taking in her countenance as she surveyed the crowd before her. It had been a long time since the North had such an obvious beauty, and as was the case with many noble ladies, her status and good fortune only made her shine all the more.

There were a few men amassed who were certain that even if she stood in a crowd of peasants she would still shine as brightly, and planned to tell her so when they got their chance to dance with her. Others still cared more for her status and good fortune than they did for her pretty face and elegant charms. When they looked at her they saw her father, and Winterfell.

As would be expected on these occasions, Eddard Stark rose to make a toast to his eldest daughter.

He was not a man made for pretty speeches nor long declarations and so he merely raised his cup and said, “To Lady Sansa!”

“ _To Lady Sansa!,_ ” the hall bellowed in return.

To those paying attention Sansa’s smile faltered only slightly. She had known not to expect a flowery declaration, it was not in her Lord Father’s nature, but even still on this, her fifteenth birthday, she had allowed her mind to imagine he might offer some words of praise.

It was then that Robb stood next to his father, his cup still raised. There were little similarities to be seen in the two men. Robb, taller than his father, and like his sister Sansa, favoring the Tully’s, had not inherited his father’s looks or aversion to attention.

“Father, if I may,” he offered in a loud voice that carried through the hall, “I would like to say a few words about my sister Sansa on her nameday.”

Catelyn looked at the way her daughter blushed so prettily and turned to admire her eldest son doing his duty, not only as an heir but also as a brother.

His father nodded his head slightly, and Robb turned to the room. He had not prepared any remarks, but he had been among the few to see the way his younger sister’s smile faded ever so slightly. There were very few days that he could abide such a thing and her fifteenth nameday was certainly not among them.

“On behalf of my mother and father I want to thank you all for coming to help us celebrate my sister Sansa on her nameday,” he began and the lords and ladies smiled at their future liege Lord. “For her nameday Sansa wanted musicians and dancing, which seems perfectly fitting as Sansa brings music with her everywhere she goes. Her laughter is the melody of Winterfell and she its greatest song… _To Lady Sansa_.”

“ _To Lady Sansa,_ ” the crowed roared once again, louder than before.

Jon and Theon intended to tease him greatly for it, but as they looked at the smile it had brought to Sansa’s face they had to admit there was no falseness in his declaration. They had watched Sansa grow from a pretty little child into a beautiful woman. Neither were particularly close to her, she did not take part in their games and roughhousing the way her sister Arya did, and it was perhaps because of this distance that they, more than anyone, were able to see the crystallization of her transformation. If they had been any closer to her the effects might not have been so clear, but as it stood they had the perfect vantage from which to admire.

They both, like her true elder brother Robb, had seen the way the other lords admired her, and had both planned independently but simultaneously to ask her for the first dance. They would seek to delay the inevitable, the way desperate men always would.

But as the musicians were well trained they started playing as soon as soon as the chorus of _Lady Sansa_ had dissipated, and so it stood to reason that Robb, the man closest to her both in familiarity and proximity, would hold out his hand and request the honor.

She accepted prettily, placing a delicate hand in his larger one, and he escorted her to the center of the room. Robb had not been practicing as his sister had, so he now looked to her to ensure he was making the steps correctly.

So skilled was she that none amassed knew that she was leading him, and soon, his body that had so long been training for battle, was put to better use. Like a pair of monarchs the mere bow of their heads suggested to the other lords and ladies that they should join them, and soon there were ten couples surrounding them.

Sansa was now learning that a crowded room could be more beneficial to a private conversation than a bare one, and looked up at her elder brother.

“Thank you, Robb,” she said.

He looked down at her, taking a small hand in his and turning her once, “It was nothing.”

“That’s not true,” she disagreed.

“Well,” he said, “I forgot to get you a present.”

Sansa’s bottom lip fell lower, and then a peal of laughter escaped. Those closest learned in that moment that Robb Stark, in spite of his Tully looks and charm, was a Stark yet and had told it true. It was greater than even the sweetest melody and they yearned for it as soon as it ended.

Across the room Theon was partnering Alys Karstark, ignoring the glares that her betrothed Daryn Hornwood was sending his way. He found that this Northern lady was not as susceptible to his charms as Jeyne Poole or the maids of Winterfell had always seemed to be, and deemed her a prig in his mind.

To the side of the room, Jon Snow was drinking ale. He would only have asked Sansa to dance to rid someone else of the opportunity, and knew it would not be proper to ask any of the other highborn ladies amassed.

The tune changed and after the appropriate bowing the partners switched. Robb found himself dancing with Wylla Manderly, a girl with the most bizarre green hair he’d ever seen but lips made for smiling, as SmallJon Umber offered his hand to Sansa.

The hall was warm and loud and the servants were busying themselves bringing ale and wine and dishes of food out to the older generation that no longer had bodies for dancing. Many of the men had old war wounds that acted up, and the women preferred to watch the younger generation enjoying themselves.

They prayed that their youthful indulgences would not be taken away, as theirs had, and that the beat of the drum would always be used for dancing rather than marching. The smiles and the healthy, flushed cheeks, of their children felt ominous to those who believed in such things, and it was at the exact moment when the partners switched once again that a raven arrived at Winterfell.

It was only another few minutes before Maester Luwin came into the hall. Though he had been invited to take part in the celebrations, he had much to busy himself with and had given Sansa her present as she broke her fast.

He entered the back of the hall where the head table sat and interrupted a hushed conversation between Lord Stark and Lord Reed.

“My Lords, I beg your pardon,” the old man bowed, “But I have urgent news.”

Lord Reed made way to go, but he had kept too many secrets of the Starks for his old friend to banish him.

“What is it?,” he asked Luwin.

Maester Luwin had been with the Starks since before the war, having intercepted the ravens Eddard, then the second son, had sent home from the Vale. News of Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon and all the things they were learning.

“I’m sorry my Lord,” Luwin began, “It is the King.”

It had been many years since Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had seen one another. Fierce allies during the war, they both had retired to their duties since. Eddard had always taken his far more seriously than Robert, keeping the North safe for his old friend.

He did not know the man that Robert Baratheon had become, and to him, he would always be a large, laughing youth with a war hammer in one hand and a bottle of ale in the other. Quick to fight and to laugh, loyal to his friends and fearsome to his enemies. The man who had always called him brother, in spite of their differences.

“What of the King?,” he asked, though his heart knew already.

“He was wounded in a hunting accident,” Luwin said and Lord Stark nodded at him to do his duty, “I’m sorry my Lord. The King is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think! Xo


	3. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support on this one so far! It is bringing me a lot of joy to write and I'm glad you're enjoying it.

Before Robert Baratheon’s body had been taken to the Sept of Baelor, Joffrey Baratheon had been crowned King.

No sooner had the Maester pronounced Robert dead, then the chambers of the castle emptied as all its occupants flooded into the Red Keep. Prince Joffrey Baratheon climbed the steps he had long glanced at and turned towards his people a King.

The members of the small council looked around at the courtiers amassed and wondered which ones would remain loyal. Robert hadn’t been much older than Joffrey when he was crowned but he had proven himself a man long before. He was a rebel, a warrior king, with a decent claim and an army at his back.

Unlike Robert, and other boys of nobility, Joffrey had not been fostered elsewhere and so had never left his mother’s influence. Like many before her, Cersei Lannister had recognized the deficiencies in her husband long before the rest of the world, and had brandished her power where she could and bided her time, placing all of her hopes on her son.

Princes had always be coddled but none quite like Joffrey. A sweet babe he had soured in his adolescence and with every indiscretion that went unchecked, every act of violence that went unpunished, he grew bolder still. The sons of lords who had been sent to the royal nursery as his playmates had over the years found excuses to return home. Some had been banished by Cersei as _unsuitable company_ as well, and after a time Joffrey had only had his guards as companions. Apart from his younger brother and sister, who now stood next to one another off to the side at the front of the crowd.

Prince Tommen looked more a boy of ten than one of twelve to the many members of the court that had assembled. He had the round face of childhood, and weak, doughy limbs that never quite seemed to achieve the purpose they had set out for. His cheeks were stained by the tears that his tutor had quickly wiped from his face before bringing him into the Great Hall.

At his side stood the Princess Myrcella, her eyes dry but downcast. In the days that followed she would wear the black and gold of her father’s house but she had been reading in her garden when one of her maids had run in with the news of his death. As it stood she wore a gown of deep burgundy, and more than one squire noticed how much it became her. She had recently gone through the growth spurt that had been promised to her younger brother and to the less lecherous amassed she appeared like a new fawn, full of promised grace.

Very few among those gathered spared a thought for the Prince and Princess, even fewer tried to imagine how hard it would be for them to lose a father. Those that thought of them at all wondered who between them had more influence with their brother, the new king. Many of those settled on the Princess, who walked everywhere with her head held high and never seemed to make the foolish errors in courtesies that both her brothers were guilty of at times.

Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, was among those who glanced across the room at the young royals. Unlike many of the men, Tommen was of far more interest to him than Myrcella. He was softer than his sister, more eager to please, and had often been overlooked in favor of Joffrey, the heir, and Myrcella, the princess. There was much potential to be found in a combination such as that.

Lord Varys, separated from Baelish by a few courtiers and half a dozen spies, followed his gaze. The pair seemed to him very young indeed. There was hope in that, and endless possibilities, but there was danger too. None of the Baratheon children seemed to favor their father, which was a blessing, but his absence had given entirely too much power to their mother.

Lord Varys was perhaps one of the only men in the Seven Kingdoms to give Cersei Lannister her fair due. He understood, where others didn’t, how much she would influence the next years, and perhaps decades, of the country’s future.

His spies told him much of the royal children, so he knew that Tommen still asked for his mother’s blessing every night before bed, and that Joffrey had long hoped for this day, drunk on the future she had painted for him, and that Myrcella - the most alike her in countenance was perhaps the least susceptible to her influence.

It had been hardest to get spies around the young princess. Her maids were changed regularly, likely for that express purpose, and her ladies-in-waiting were all other Lannister girls who reported to Tywin and Cersei already, one even to Tyrion. Her sworn shield, Ser Arys Oakheart, was perhaps the most devoted knight in the Seven Kingdoms, and would sooner split himself open than betray his charge. She was well guarded, and tended and in his limited interactions with the princess, Varys understood why.

So it was her he watched as the crown was placed on Joffrey Baratheon’s head, and he alone who finally saw a single tear fall down the Princess Myrcella’s cheek.

____

_Six months later_

The Red Keep was very rarely quiet.

There was a constant whirl of activities, maids emptying chamber pots and running after their lady who had forgotten to bring a shawl for her walk by the sea. At any given hour of the day there was someone locked in an embrace with someone who was not their husband, and another gambling away their fortunes on a game of dice.

In the first few months of King Joffrey's rule, there had been whole weeks of frivolity. The funereal proceedings for King Robert had lasted a full week and the celebrations for Joffrey’s coronation another two after that.

Since then, celebrations seemed to happen for the smallest of reasons. A successful hunt or a minor marriage. The whole court was drunk on Arbor wine and their own luck, and in the meantime the King’s Small Council levied higher taxes on the poor and increased production in advance of the upcoming winter, leading to longer days for the common people and precious little by way of savings.

The Princess Myrcella’s nameday celebrations had lasted fifteen days - one for each of the years of her life - and those in Flea Bottom had no idea that the Princess had tried to refuse the fuss being made over her. She had requested a small party to travel to Casterly Rock, where she could swim in the sea, but her elder brother heard nothing of it.

The Princess’ nameday had been celebrated with jousts and wrestling matches and bawdy plays that she found crude and unoriginal. Knight after knight asked for her favor in the lists and all those amassed had to admit that she was just a great a beauty as her mother, even if hers was quieter in nature.

When it was not demanded that she be elsewhere, Myrcella spent much of her time in her personal garden. With Ser Arys standing guard and Rosamund picking flowers for the King Mother, Myrcella would open a book and read under the shade of her favorite tree for hours on end.

As the sky turned golden that afternoon she closed her book and rose gracefully, nodding at Ser Arys who opened the large heavy door for her. She walked through the royal apartments to her bedchamber where her handmaid, Lyla, was emptying ewers of hot water into the tub.

“I was going to come fetch you, Princess,” Lyla scolded. “You’re expected for supper shortly.”

“I’m sorry, Lyla, I was reading,” Myrcella apologized, though she had no true cause to do so.

Her handmaid _tutted_ and undressed her. Myrcella lowered herself into the tub and Lyla sat behind her and brushed her wavy golden hair.

“Who will be in attendance tonight?,” she inquired.

Lyla had rehearsed for this moment, having spoken to the King Mother’s handmaid earlier so that she’d be able to suitably prepare her mistress.

“The King, and your mother, Prince Tommen, your grandfather, your uncle Tyrion, Lord Baelish and Lord Varys, and Lord Renly,” she recited.

“I’ll wear my light green gown, with the emerald necklace Uncle Jaime gave me for my last nameday,” the princess decided.

Lyla looked towards the heavens and corrected, “Your mother has requested I lay out the dark pink gown for you.”

“Well then the dark pink gown is what I will wear,” Myrcella agreed, standing up and accepting the sheet Lyla handed to her.

As her handmaid helped her out of the tub and set about dressing her, the young King was in his rooms pursuing other ventures.

“ _Drink_ ,” he ordered.

“But it’s true, Your Grace,” his squire noted, having just completed telling the story of how he had lost his virginity.

The game was simple, each member told the King a story and if he believed it he would drink and if he did not they would. The King had seemed to believe many of the stories at the beginning but as he drained one, then two, then three cups of wine he had grown more suspicious.

“Your King says it’s a lie,” he corrected.

The squire looked around for help but the Kingsguards averted his gaze. Without further hesitation he took a sip of ale.

“More,” the King demanded.

The squire took another sip, but seeing his King’s eyes as he made to lower his cup he raised it once again, draining the glass. The boy had never cared for ale, and it settled strangely in his stomach.

“Now you, dog,” Joffrey focused his attention elsewhere.

The Hound was the King’s favorite player. The large beast of a man had a penchant for cruelty and a knack for remembering detail. The King often drank because there was little he thought his sworn shield incapable of, and in fact, the Hound was largely responsible for the state he was now in.

The man opened his mouth to tell a particularly grueling story when a servant came in.

“Your Grace, your family is gathering now,” he said with a bow.

“Then by all means, let them gather,” Joffrey jested, a few of the Kingsguard chuckling.

“Th-they -,” the servant began.

Joffrey turned to him and mocked, “Th, th, th, spit it out, you fool.”

“I believe you’re expected,” the servant said.

“Expected?,” Joffrey raged, kicking back from his chair. He stumbled slightly as he stood but it did nothing to temper his ire. Making his way across the room he grabbed the servant by the thin cloth of their tunic. The boy was half a head taller than the King but no one would have known it as they came face to face. “I am the _King_ and I will not be _ordered about_ by _anyone_ … Now… who is _expecting me?_ ”

“I am,” a steely voice cut in from the doorway.

It belonged to Tywin Lannister, the King’s grandfather and Hand. The Kingsguards, even the Hound, stood up immediately and the squire did as well. He was on unsteady feet and his chair made an awful screeching sound on the floor, which only added to his discomfort.

“Grandfather,” the King greeted him cooly.

“Your Grace,” Tywin bowed and then straightened up, “Come.”

His tone offered little room for disagreement and the anger that had been in the King a moment ago had been replaced by something else. Tywin did not wait for his grandson so it fell to the King to hurry to catch up to him, making him look very much like the seventeen year old that he was.

They were the last to arrive, the rest of the party was already amassed in the dining room. Cersei Lannister was pacing by the door and moved to straighten the King’s doublet as he entered but he slapped her hands away from him.

Though all saw, none remarked, but the light nearly pleasant atmosphere that had been in the room a moment earlier was now gone. The party all took their seats.

Joffrey as King went to the head of the table and his grandfather sat at the opposite end. Tommen sat to the King’s left and Lord Baelish on his right. Tyrion was in the middle of the table next to Tommen and across from Myrcella, who sat in between Lord Varys and her Uncle Renly. Cersei seated herself next to her father and servants hurried to fill everyone’s cups with wine.

“And so, what did I tell you?,” Renly asked Myrcella, continuing their conversation from a moment earlier.

The princess grinned, “You were right, I _adore_ it. I lost the whole of the afternoon reading it - do you have any others?”

“They will be with you by sunset tomorrow,” he offered obsequiously.

With a smile for him the princess turned to Lord Varys and enquired about his health as Tommen told Tyrion all about the new kittens Lord Baelish had happened upon.

“Abandoned by the castle,” Tyrion shook his head, tutting at the incomprehensible cruelty of people, “How _lucky_ they were that you found them.”

“Just so, Lord Tyrion,” Baelish agreed and then turned with a bow of his head to Tommen, “And of course my first thought was of the Prince.”

Tyrion smiled and raised his cup to his lips, “Naturally.”

At the other end of the table Cersei was imploring Tywin to reconsider the Dornish alliance that had recently been debated within the small council. Some were of the opinion that Prince Doran should be asked to serve as part of it, while others felt the Dornish were best left in Dorne.

Tywin was as interested in his daughter’s opinion about the matter as he had been the Small Council’s. A raven had gone out earlier that day requesting the Prince’s involvement.

All the while the King sat at the end of the table, drinking his wine and listening to the conversations around him. His green eyes wandered around the table. Baelish was of very little interest to him, being an upstart and a brothel keeper he was nearly unflappable. Varys too was always so sickeningly obsequious, and then there was Myrcella.

“You look beautiful tonight, sister,” he said, mostly into his cup.

The Princess was listening to their Uncle Renly’s plans for his nameday celebrations and had not heard the King’s compliment.

“I SAID,” Joffrey all but roared, and all the conversations stopped at once, “You look _beautiful_ tonight sister.”

Myrcella smiled at her older brother, “Thank you, Your Grace. Mother thought this gown would be most appropriate and I see that she chose right.”

The Princess then looked across the table and smiled at her Mother, but Cersei’s eyes were on the King.

“How old are you?,” he asked.

“Fifteen,” Myrcella answered, and then added, “Your Grace.”

“And yet you haven’t _flowered_ ,” Joffrey scoffed, “Is there something _wrong_ with you? Should we ask the Maester to inspect you?”

Cersei and Joffrey were the only ones to look at Myrcella in that moment. The Prince’s eyes were in his lap. Varys was suddenly very interested in the offerings, Baelish had found a pesky errant thread on his doublet, and Renly was looking around for more wine. Tywin and Tyrion’s focus was on the King, watching his every move the way a lion tamer would never lose sight of their charge.

It was Cersei who spoke, “Come now, Your Grace, this is not suitable conversation for mixed company.”

In fact the exact subject had been discussed by the assorted company on many occasions. Many of her maids had been bribed for more information but they all said the same thing. That the Princess hadn’t flowered to their knowledge. That they had taken her sheets themselves just the other day. That of course they would come with news first to them. And only to them.

They had never so far as speculated amongst themselves, but it had been alluded to many times. Before Garlan Tyrell took his wife, and when Robin Arryn had turned thirteen, and every so often when they all remembered that Eddard Stark had an unmarried heir.

_In good time_ , they always said at such moments, knowing it was all moot until the Princess flowered.

In truth, it had been played to the Small Council’s benefit on more than one occasion. The delay allowed them not to show their hand too early, and thus promises had been made to all of them for the mere suggestion that they would keep their son or their cousin or brother in mind when the time came.

Though Joffrey had no direct knowledge of these overtures, he scoffed all the same.

“She’s a Princess of the Iron Throne not some milkmaid,” he pointed out. He gestured around, “Her marriage is of _national importance_ and she is _my sister_ and I will discuss whatever I want about her whenever I want to to whoever I want to.”

“As is your right, Your Grace,” the Princess agreed. “I have often prayed to the Mother to grant me the ability to be wed, so that I may wed wherever most advantageous to you and the Seven Kingdoms.”

The King had never asked his sister to take part in his game of truths. She would have made a worthier player than his squire or even the Hound, but she had never been invited to join.

He looked at the Princess, who though had just mentioned the Mother, appeared to all assembled every inch the Maiden. Her cheeks were rosy in the candlelight, the torches making her golden hair shine, and every gesture was filled with the easy grace of innocence.

The King took a small sip of his drink.

As though the tension had very much passed, Tommen looked at his older brother and wondered, “Will you get married?”

Joffrey drained his cup and held his hand out for it out to be refilled.

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes still on his sister, “Someday.” And then gestured vaguely around the table, “If this lot can find me someone suitable.”

The King’s future marriage had been discussed nearly as often as the princess’. The same families had been mentioned. There was a Martell Princess, half a dozen Tyrell heiresses, his cousin Shireen had been suggested and quickly disregarded, and there were rumors of a beauty in the North.

Some of these suggestions had been brought to the King, and had been dismissed with differing levels of disdain.

“Who would be suitable to you, Your Grace?,” Tywin asked his grandson.

“I am a _King_ ,” Joffrey seethed, “It would not do for me to marry the daughter of one of my servants.”

A very similar sentiment had been made to Tywin Lannister years before when he was the Hand to a different King. Had they not been, things may have turned out all together differently.

As he had then, Tywin Lannister looked at his sovereign with unflinching focus, a merchant appraising a shipment that had been bought and paid for only to arrive damaged.

“Perhaps we’ll find a Wildling Princess for you,” Tyrion suggested, a hiccup immediately following.

An angry screech echoed in the room as the King pushed away from the table and stood. His ire was entirely focused on his uncle now and his face took on an unhealthy redness.

“I am your _King_ and I will not be _laughed at!_ ,” he ordered.

“No one is laughing at you, Your Grace,” his grandfather assured him.

Joffrey tore his gaze away from his Uncle and looked around the table. When he gestured, it was not just to Baelish and Renly, Tommen and Myrcella. The reach of the King was in measures of magnitude and so his hands spanned to Dorne and Winterfell, the Vale and the Westerlands.

“They _all_ are laughing at me,” he argued, “Why else have they not come to pledge fealty to their King? It’s been half a year since I was crowned and yet they do not come.”

There had been more ravens sent that afternoon. Not just to Dorne, but to Highgarden, and the Iron Islands, to Winterfell, and to Riverrun, and the Eyrie.

So Tywin Lannister nodded and said, “You’re right, Your Grace.”

Joffrey was still panting from his anger and he looked at his grandfather, “I… I am?”

“Yes,” Tywin agreed. “I think it’s high time that the Lords come and pledge fealty to their King. It shall be done at once.”

“Prudent,” Baelish agreed.

“Overdue,” Varys lamented.

And as they all drank in thanks to the gods for blessing them with such a good and wise King, the ravens continued on to their destinations.


	4. The Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack. It took me SO long to get back into this one but oh how I love it! It definitely works a different part of my brain than the others and if it's a little clunky I apologize!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it, let me know what you think!!

The raven had arrived three days earlier, and still they argued.

_Come South Lord Stark and pledge fealty to your King._

Though Tywin Lannister did not share Ned Stark’s aversion towards long speeches when the time called for it, he could always be counted upon to get his point across with however many words he chose to devote to it. As it stood, had _upon pain of death_ been etched in blood the sentiment could not have been clearer. 

The small piece of parchment lay in the center of the table, where it had remained since Catelyn threw it the first night it arrived. Her first thought had been the fire but too many had been present for her to deny they’d ever seen it.

Lord Stark sat at the head of the table, his chair pushed away and his elbows resting on the arms of it. His eldest son sat on his left, his posture entirely opposite to his father’s. He was leaning forward, his hands resting on the table, the balls of his feet bouncing slightly on the floor as though at any moment he might spring into action. His mother paced on his left and across the table sat Maester Luwin, warming his old bones by the fire. Ser Rodrick sat at the other end of the table, awaiting orders.

While the others had been present for many of the conversations, Lord and Lady Stark had argued long into each night since the raven had arrived in the privacy of their chambers. The hours were etched on each of their faces, lines of worry and annoyance tracing patterns by their eyes and mouths.

“Do you remember what happened when your father answered a king’s summons?,” Catelyn asked.

Ned rubbed his face, the late hour present in his voice when he reminded her, “A different king.”

“And a different time,” Maester Luwin agreed. The old man looked at Catelyn and reminded her, “Lord Stark has done nothing wrong, my lady.”

“When has that ever mattered in King’s Landing?,” Catelyn wondered.

In these past days it had become abundantly clear that even all these years later, her husband had no idea what it had been like during all those months. Waiting for news, hoping not to receive it. The battles lost and won, her stomach growing larger, and all the while she had no idea what would become of her husband. Or of her, or Robb.

She looked at her eldest son, eighteen years old - the same age his father had been when it all began. He looked nothing like him, not just in coloring and complexion but in the way they moved and held themselves. Even now as they muddled over the same question.

Where his father’s back rested against his chair, his clothing hanging about his frame loosely, Robb was leaned forward, the balls of his feet on the floor even as he was seated. His Tully eyes followed the conversation the way Shaggydog’s followed Rickon’s spoon.

Even now, as he knocked upon the door of manhood, she saw him at Rickon’s age. He had been all that she had, in those first few months of his life, and the bond that had been built between them at Riverrun had never faltered in the time since.

She tried to imagine him, as Ned was then. Battle hardened and war weathered. She tried not to imagine it.

Robb looked to his mother and saw for the first time the lines on her face. They were etched in worry, not age, and had long been smooth under the comfort of steady rule. He looked towards his father and knew that it had been the warden rather than the king who had made it so.

It had been a long six months in Winterfell since King Robert died. Ned Stark had fallen into mourning for his old friend, and the castle fell with him. Robb had often wondered whether losing Robert was like reliving the war all over again. That in losing Robert, he once again lost his father, and his brother, and his sister Lyanna, and most of all the part of himself that had been roused to stand fight.

Whereas before he had often stood and watched from above as Robb and Jon sparred, or they helped Bran with his archery, he now spent much of his time indoors, seeing only to the necessary matters. Death seemed to beget death, and the numbers of deserters from the Night’s Watch and Wildlings who had made their way through had risen. Ned had approached each man with the grim determination he always had, looking each of them in the eye before he took their lives.

The first one though, a pockmarked deserter with tattered clothes and madness in his eyes had been different than any that preceded him. Robb had accompanied his father, as had Jon and Theon, and even Bran and listened to his story of creatures in the night. Ned had listened to his last words without reaction but when he’d uttered the king’s name his words had stumbled, and when he swung his greatsword there seemed to be more than duty in it.

In the past months, Lord Stark had been slowed by more than sadness. Or perhaps the pain in his heart had spread elsewhere to the body. A weariness had taken hold of him, and the limbs that had once hoisted him easily into a saddle or thrown his children laughing into the air now ached day and night. His breath too had become labored even without exertion and there seemed to be a gauze that fell over his eyes with little warning.

“This is written in Tywin Lannister’s own hand,” Ned reminded those gathered. “To refuse is treason, Cat. Would you have a traitor for a husband?”

“Better a living traitor than a dead patriot,” Catelyn argued. Ned opened his mouth but she crossed around the table to him, “Even if it is what you say, even if it _is_ just to pledge fealty - the journey is hard and the climate is not what you’re used to. There is more than one way to court death.”

A different sort of man would have raised his voice against a wife who questioned his manhood in private, let alone in public. Ned Stark merely sighed, and that more than anything told them all that the fight had well and truly left him.

In the past few months, when Ned had retired early with aches in his head and his bones, and Catelyn to tend to him, Robb had made sure Rickon ate his dinner and that Arya and Sansa apologized when they hurt one another’s feelings. He had helped make vacant appointments that though not urgent would be important, and had been amongst the party to catch the most recent deserter, taking him prisoner in his father’s name.

“Write to King’s Landing, Maester Luwin,” Robb suggested firmly, “Tell them my father is ill and unable to travel.”

“Robb!,” Ned warned.

Robb looked at his father and shook his head, “Tell them that I will come in his place.”

“You can’t be serious,” Catelyn demurred. “Robb you don’t know these people.”

He looked at his mother, “No, I don’t, and they don’t know me. Whatever old feuds or slights have not to do with me. I’m nearly Joffrey’s - the _King’s -_ age perhaps we could be friends like our fathers. Either way I will be able to assure them that the North is secure. What better proof could there be than the heir of Winterfell swearing his allegiance?”

“You’re just a boy,” Ned said, but it was without malice or conviction.

“A year older than the king,” Robb reminded him, “The same age as you were Father. You know that I’m right. And if you truly believe there is no danger in this summons, then you can have no true cause to deny me. Do I have it wrong?”

Stories traveled more slowly amongst the snows. Ned had never employed spies, seeing no need for them and staking no trust in their words. Traveling players avoided the North so late in summer, and there were few who passed through the walls of Wintefell that cared much for gossip.

So they had not heard the rumors that were circulating in the south about whores accepting summons to the castle and never returning, and news of a singer losing his tongue had died along the King’s Road.

Ned looked at his eldest son, the boy who had been training for this moment since before he’d learned to walk. The boy who could hunt and spar and dance better than he ever could. The boy who was a soldier without a battle, a hero without a mission, who would soon turn into a man who had no need of him.

“No, you have the right of it, son,” he agreed. He looked at Luwin and nodded, “Tell them I’m in poor health and am sending my son and heir in my stead. Tell them that Robb Stark’s word has the strength of the entire North behind it.”

*

As it turned out the castle that cared little for the gossip of King’s Landing, was not as immune to word that its heir would soon be leaving them for it.

Preparations began as soon as the raven was sent south, and young men elbowed one another out of the way to be chosen as part of the retinue that would accompany the young lord. The country had so long been at peace that this generation was filled with a near hysteria for action. Traveling south at the end of summer, away from their families and their sweethearts, accompanying a lord no older than they seemed to them the greatest adventure they could imagine.

He would take with him two hundred men, as well as a steward, a few pages, and a smattering of other servants who his mother trusted to take care of him.

And if he could be persuaded to intercede on her behalf, his younger sister Sansa.

“No,” he dismissed.

He was packing some of his hunting clothes into a trunk and Sansa closed it and sat on it. She wore a thick light blue gown and a determined expression.

“Move,” he ordered, using the deeper voice he’d been practicing in his moments alone.

Sansa fixed him with a stubborn expression and he crossed his arms. She crossed hers. Knowing he was expected downstairs in a few moments he leaned down and placed one arm under Sansa’s knees and the other around her back and lifted her like she weighed no more than a sheet and tossed her unceremoniously onto his bed.

He placed the jacket into his trunk carefully and when he turned back was not wholly surprised to find her standing right behind him. She looked up at him with her matching blue eyes.

“Please, Robb,” she all but begged. “You of all people know that this is all I’ve ever wanted.”

He could not deny that his sister seemed destined for the south. Her mind had been filled from a young age with stories of gallant knights and tournaments, and yet she’d seen precious little of it in her fifteen years. She was the flower of the North but it was not entirely impossible that she would wilt before her time if left untended. Sooner still under the current pall that had settled in Winterfell.

“Father will never allow it,” he pointed out. “Even if I was inclined to ask him.”

“But Mother will, I know she will, she wants me to make a good marriage and I’ll have a better chance of that at court than I ever could here,” Sansa noted.

“Is that meant to convince me?,” he wondered, “You’re fifteen.”

“But I won’t be forever,” she noted, unwittingly uncovering the worst nightmare of every brother who had a beautiful and beloved younger sister. More cunningly she noted, “Please Robb. You’ll be all on your own there, and I can help you… with the manners and customs.”

He chuckled, “Are you calling me a barbarian?”

She heard her victory before Robb did. Ever the lady she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a solemn kiss to her brother’s cheek and left before he could change his mind, her direwolf Lady trailing behind her.

Jon was headed his way and gave a short and awkward nod to Sansa, which she returned elegantly if not dismissively. His half-brother continued into his room, his arms behind his back, his long hair tied back with a cord.

“Stark,” he greeted him and looked around the room, “Still packing?”

Robb shrugged, “The servants have better things to do. And you?”

Jon nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Nearly done. Of course, I’ll have no occasion for such finery.”

Robb followed his gaze to where a shirt Sansa had sewn for him rested on his bed.

“We can’t all be men of the Night’s Watch,” Robb pointed out.

There it hung, the pendulum in between them. It had been swinging ever since Eddard Stark returned from war, with a nursemaid trailing behind in a carriage, a young Jon bouncing on her knee.

Every lesson Robb had ever learned, Jon had learned by his side. All of his greatest blows had been delivered by Jon in the tiltyard, his greatest marks had been half inspired by wanting to obscure Jon’s own. And yet, to a man, there was no one he trusted more than his half-brother. His greatest friend and loyalist rival.

There had been one place where Robb had no rival, and that was in his mother’s affection. The lessons she taught him, he learned alone. And so Robb knew the name of every steward and kitchen maid, the sons of all his bannermen. It was only he who’d been given an heirs education, and had learned long ago that every adventure he ever had would be in service to Winterfell, and the North, and the King.

Jon looked at Robb’s broad shoulders and decided not to tease him. He knew that if his brother had it his way, they’d be marching North together, at least for a time.

“Just so,” Jon agreed. “Father wants to see you.”

Robb tossed Sansa’s shirt on top of the others in his trunk and headed for the door. Grey Wind got off the floor and followed him, and when he exited his chamber he saw Ghost at attention waiting for Jon.

An army unto themselves, the boys and their wolves walked through the halls. Servants made room for them, bobbing ever so slightly in gestures that never would have passed for curtseys in the South. Robb and Jon didn’t notice, nor would they have cared if they did.

They walked through the castle to the Great Room. To both their surprise, it was not just their Father waiting for them, but Lady Stark, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrick, and Theon Greyjoy.

Jon went to leave his side to join Theon, where Lady Stark preferred him, but Robb stopped him with a hand to his chest. His new responsibilities had made him grow bolder and eighteen years was long enough for his Mother to have grown used to him.

“You wanted to see me, Father,” Robb began.

“I did,” his Father agreed, “Are you near to ready?”

Robb nodded, a well-trained soldier delivering a message to a gruff commander,“Yes sir, we should be ready the day after next.”

Unwisely his gaze fell to Sansa, whose eyes went wide in meaning.

“But Father,” and then he turned to the more likely of his parents to be persuaded, “Mother… there’s something maybe we should discuss in private.”

Catelyn did not need spies to know what her son was about to propose. Her eldest children had always been close, and it was only a matter of time before Sansa made the request.

Lord Stark looked at his son and those amassed, and perhaps most of all felt the pain in his joints, and said, “Speak, son.”

Robb had stood in front of the entire North and spoken on behalf of his sister without a moment’s hesitation, but he had long ago learned that speaking to a crowd was far easier than to a small group.

“I’d like to request…,” Robb started, and then noticing his own formality shook his head and asked unceremoniously, “Can Sansa come?”

If his sister had been expecting a weightier proposal she might have been disappointed, but as all she wanted in the world was to go South she did not mind his directness.

“Sansa?,” Lord Stark asked, looking at his eldest daughter.

“Oh please, Father!,” Sansa stepped forward.

Catelyn looked at her daughter once and the young heiress stepped back without another word. Pleading would only remind her Father how young she still was, better to remain silent. Her older brother was not the only one to have gone through years of training.

Lord Stark did not often think of his oldest daughter. Her education had been left to Septa Mordane and her mother, as was right and proper, so he only sawhis daughter once a day at supper. She was a credit to him, he knew. Beautiful and sweet, well-behaved. He knew that if he valued the sorts of things others did in their daughters, Sansa would be his favorite. But her mother showed her more than enough favor.

Looking at her now he began to see what others had long known. That she was far too great a beauty to last long in the North. All her charms and graces were wasted here.

In that moment, perhaps for the first time in her life, he understood how dangerous she was.

One might have thought that the brother of Lyanna Stark would not have taken so long, but so focused on their differences he had not bothered to notice the one similarity the world would care about.

“You’ll have far too many responsibilities in the capital to properly look out for your sister,” he noted to Robb.

“Perhaps Septa Mordane could accompany them,” his wife suggested.

It was hard to believe that she was the same woman who only days before had been warning him of the dangers of the capital. Ever since the decision had been made for Robb to go, her arguments had subsided. She had an unwavering faith in their eldest son, and the education she’d given him as well as his sister.

“You’d send her to the South?,” he asked.

Catelyn glanced at her eldest daughter whose identical blue eyes pleaded with her now. She saw in her what all mother’s see in their daughters eventually. A girl more beautiful than they, who might perhaps, through good fortune, a pretty face, and strong enough wits, go farther than they had. Someone to build upon their legacy in all the quiet ways that women were allowed.

“She’ll find a more suitable match in the South than she will here,” Lady Stark pointed out, and then as though the mother in her could not hide forever, added, “And she’s a good girl, Ned. She deserves to see a bit of the world.”

“Besides, Sansa knows all of the courtesies and traditions that I don’t,” Robb added, as though believing the merits of it for the first time, “She’ll make sure I don’t accidentally start a war.”

At this, even his Father chuckled. It was so rare that all of his children turned to look at him, all except Sansa who for the first time in her life felt so close to getting what she wanted that it filled her with terror.

He sat in silence for a long moment. This they were used to, and all assembled waited patiently while their Lord studied the merits of it.

Finally he said, “Septa Mordane will go with you, and you will listen to everything she tells you, is that clear?”

“Yes Father,” Sansa agreed willingly.

Mother and daughter looked at one another, identical smiles of victory on their faces. Only Catelyn’s fell when Ned spoke next.

“And Jon will accompany you, as your sworn shield,” he determined.

All eyes apart from Catelyn’s fell on the dark, brooding, bastard. It was unusual to feel so many eyes upon him at once, he was more used to slipping into the background, outshone by his brother and other half-siblings.

“But Father I’m meant to join the Night’s Watch,” Jon argued uselessly.

When Jon had first suggested it, Ned had merely nodded his head and told him _You’ll do me proud_. His brother Benjen had found a life in it, and it was fine, important work, but it was not what he would have chosen for Jon. Even still he had known that the sooner he was out of Catelyn’s home the better. There had been no other option. It would have offended any Lord in the Seven Kingdoms to send his bastard to be their ward while his heir and other trueborn sons rested safely at Winterfell, even if Jon was just as noble as they in all the ways that truly mattered.

An opportunity like this would come along once in a bastard’s life.

Besides, he had told it true. Robb would not have enough time to properly watch out for Sansa, and having just understood the power she possessed, Ned would not part with his eldest daughter without some assurance of her safety.

“The realms will have to be guarded by others for the time being, Jon,” he informed him, “You have but one charge now.”


End file.
